▶ Car radio – Twentyone Pilots
Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.
When, on the morning of Saturday 8th April, I went to the bicycle parking space next to my school and found out that my bike had been stolen, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I found my chain and its padlock in the basket of a bike which was near mine. A small bit of the padlock had been literally cut off, and so that day, all I went home with was just my chain and that broken padlock.
I didn’t cry. Why should have I? I just got really mad. I was furious, to say the least.
I went home then, with that chain in one of my hands. Does saying that I imagined choking the thief with it make me a sociopath? I don’t care if it does. That bike represented my mean of transport, everything I could count on when moving in my own city, what I used to ride twice, if not more times, everyday.
Maybe I’m not supposed to kick up such a fuss, people are always being stolen something and, in most of cases, it’s something much more expensive than a bike, but again, I don’t care. I don’t care at all because I can save a little money for a few months and with less than €100 I’ll get away with another one. So money, I couldn’t care less about it now.
The thing is that my bike was actually my dad’s bike. Being stolen that bike feels like being stolen a part of him. That’s what makes me angry the most. Not the money, not the broken padlock, not its now useless key. It’s him. It’s being taken away the handlebars he used to touch with his soft and big hands, the pedals he used to put his feet on, those feet who helped me mark the beginning of the trail towards who I am today. I feel like a part of me is gone forever and this does frighten me.